


The Soldier's Girl

by wildandbeautiful



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, I Don't Even Know, just pure sin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-08-28 07:58:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8437675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildandbeautiful/pseuds/wildandbeautiful
Summary: Illya teaches Gaby the finer points of espionage.





	1. The Defense

**| The Defense |**

Her fingers crawl, ever so discreetly in the darkness, towards the nightstand bathed in moonlight. They seek, restless, until she feels cold metal. His much larger hand suddenly appears, covering hers entirely.

_No, Chop Shop Girl._

_I can't sleep._

She isn't sure if it's an explanation or a complaint—a plea for him to tire her out.

_Is easy._ _Just close your eyes he says_ , voice low and rough. _And leave gun alone_.

♤♤♤

Gaby fired a gun for the first time when she was seventeen. It was with a boy she knew from the neighborhood.

However, she lets Illya assume that she is still inexperienced. She lets him teach her.

She figures it's good for his tenuous self esteem. And, truthfully, she thrills for his eagerness—the feel of him pressed up behind her. He shows her how to take it apart, put it back together, load it.

It's heavy in her hands as his fingers cover hers, working it. She is endlessly satisfied by the fluid feel of the machinery, the slide and click when when she feels it cock.

Her chest hitches as she pulls the trigger and feels it release. Fireworks.

She's flushed and buzzing. Illya's cheek is pressed against hers, he's a hard line at her back, and the scent of him fills her head, makes her dizzy. He's not entirely unaffected either: ears pink, sweat gathering at his temples.

His mouth inches from hers, his fingers are completely steady as he turns on the safety.


	2. The Master & Margarita

**| The Master & Margarita | **

She’s quite enthralled by the way the dress fits. The look of the wig. It feels like a party.

 _You cannot wear it like a costume_ , he grumbles. _It is supposed to be you._

Her cover this mission is a dirty blonde, who likes big jewels and intricate dresses. She wears stockings with rhinestones up the back and smokes cigarettes out of an ivory holder. She's a party girl. American. Light and airy. Champagne in human form.

Nothing like Gaby. This is not her but a prettily painted mask she’ll wear for a week.

Illya insists. _You have to wear the cover like a second skin. Let it become you._

She fingers the blonde curls. He grabs her hand.

_No. You would not fidget so much if it was real._

_Fine._

She slides up against him, feels his heart pick up.

 _Hi_ , she trills. _I'm Mary. And who might you be?_

She flutters her fake eyelashes.

He rolls his eyes.

_I hope you are more convincing with mark._

_Well that's a funny accent mister_ , she continues. _So...Marc, you said? Well, Marc, what brings you to the US of A?_

 _Work_ , he grumbles, reluctant to play along.

_Hmm, I bet you're somebody important. You look important. What business you in?_

_Private security_ , he says, voice flat.

 _No kidding!_ she exclaims. _That is exciting. I bet you're good. You look like you could throw me around without breaking a sweat._

Her voice has dropped to a huskier level.

 _Gaby_. It's a warning. But the red tips of his ears betray him.

 _Mary_ , she reminds him, stern. _You know, Marc, I don't usually go off with strangers. But I feel like I can trust you._

She runs her fingers down his arms, so lightly she imagines that he can barely feel it under his sweater. She places his hand on the curve of her knee.

_I don't really know you, but you look like you know how to have a good time._

She'd bet good money that nobody's ever said that Illya before in his life. Indeed, his gaze looks more angry than lustful but she knows him well enough now to know better.

_So Marc, which way is your room?_

He hesitates, smiles ruefully, before tilting his head behind him to the bedroom of the hotel suite. She slides behind him, presses up against his back.

_I like the strong silent type, Marc. I bet I can break you._

He huffs but follows her to the bedroom. She sits on the edge and pulls up her hem, spreading her thighs. He goes to kneels in front of her but she stops him with her foot.

To his confused look she says: _This is how Mary likes to do it._

She pulls him to her by his belt buckle, undoes his pants and sticks her hand inside. She works him until she's satisfied and then helps him drop his trousers and underwear. She takes his cock into her mouth, and her moans match his as she sucks him. His fingers grip the wig. She teases him more than she normally would and when he hits the back of her throat he comes hard and loud.

_I told you I could break you._

She's smug. He rolls his eyes.

She reaches for him, only to whisper: _Fuck me like a stranger._

She’s sure that if Illya ever did actually have sex with a stranger he would do it with white gloves on—too courteous to even come inside of her.

Now, she strips off the dress, but leaves on the wig, jewelry and gaudy underwear. Lets him look, touch, grab her. He’s rougher than usual. She turns so he can only see the back of her blonde wig. She feels him line up, push her panties aside and then—stop.

_What are you doing?_

_If I were with stranger...I would use protection_ , he manages.

 _Mein Gott_ , she huffs under her breath. _Just fuck me._

And he does. She digs her fingers into the sheets and imagines what it would be like to meet someone who looks like Illya in a bar and take him to a hotel room. If she didn’t know who he was, but just saw a one-night bedfellow. What she might have done to him that first night in Rome if she had seen anything other than a KGB machine... With his bright eyes and hair the color of hay. The sweep of his nose and mouth. Big hands. Flat, hard stomach.

What might Mary think when she sees Marc’s cock for the first time?

As she comes she cries, _Marc!_ , just to feel Illya’s annoyance radiate through the back of her skull.

They end up pressed together on top of the comforter and he is her Illya again completely: sweet kisses and Russian endearments. So she takes off the wig and loses the lingerie. Gaby again, completely.

 _How was that?_ She traces his smile.

_You certainly committed. But... please do not do all of that with mark._

She laughs.

 _Illya?_ She lays her head right over his heart.

_Yes, moya lyubov’?_

_I like training with you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All chapter titles come from Russian novels of the same names.


	4. Crime and Punishment

**| Crime and Punishment |**

 

It's his finger in her face again, only this time she takes it in her mouth swallows it down so he feels her throat working around him.

His command is low and gruff, like that of the soldier he once was. Instead of over his knee though she bends down on the desk, cheek and palms flat against the hard wood.

She lifts the short hem of her dress, pulls down her panties.

He only hits the fleshier parts of her body, gentle with her to a fault. On the fifth smack she sobs his name, _Illya_.

He counts to thirty in the same commanding KGB voice. By strike ten she's begging and he goes lower, faster. He hits his target every time, with marksman precision.

She comes—slowly, quietly with the faintest tickle of wetness spreading between her legs–by twenty-seven. The last three slaps are merely perfunctory and land without any bite.

He smoothes a hand over the marks, tsking at the sight. He lays an apologetic kiss on the swell of her behind in deference for the damage he's done which he’ll have to stare at as he's fucking her later. She laughs, completely thrilled.

She rights herself and they eat dinner, the sting of her flesh disappearing with every sip of wine she takes.

In the living room she sits in front of his chair and lets him brush her hair. It's one of his peculiarities, like dressing her. She's often wondered if he used to do it for his mother but would never ask.

**Author's Note:**

> A little ambiguous spy smut because why not? Subsequent chapters will not be ambiguous in the least. 
> 
> Title and Chapter 1 inspired by Sally Read's "The Soldier's Girl"


End file.
